“Telephone! Likely there's a party at the other end, then. Where's the other end?”
“I don' know,” whispered Kelly. “But I have this in me head, for ye know, when the priest has done his last, 'tis sure he's dhropped his man at the front door of wherever he's goin', wid a letther of inthroduction in his hatband. An' while the man was waitin' for the same to be read an' him certified a thrue corpse, if he had a kettleful of boilin' impatience in himself like Tom Conlon, wouldn't he be passin' the time o' day through the keyhole wid his friends be-yant?”
“'Tain't a telephone, then? It's a keyhole, hey?”
“Tiliphone or keyhole, he'd be talkin' through it, Conlon would, do ye mind?”
Harding looked with some interest. Conlon muttered, and stopped, and muttered again. Harding rose and walked to the bed. Kelly followed tremulously.
“Listen, will ye?” said Kelly, suddenly leaning down.
“I don' know,” said Harding, with an instinct of hesitation. “I don' know as it's a square game. Maybe he's talkin' of things that ain't healthy to mention. Maybe he's plugged somebody some time, or broke a bank—ain't any more'n likely. What of it?”
“Listen, will ye?”
“Don' squat on a man when he's down, Kelly.”
“'Sh!”